CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RELIEF VESSEL
The next day dawned bright and clear. Hardly a ripple disturbed the placid surface of the Flow, although beyond the harbour the flood tide was boiling and seething through the Pentland Firth, with a roar that sounded like a continuous peal of thunder.
M.L.'s 1497 and 1499 were ready to cast off when Cumberleigh stepped on board the former—Meredith's command. Morpeth had forestalled the R.A.F. officer by a good hour.
"When do you pick her up?" inquired Cumberleigh, referring to the German vessel bringing stores and relief crews to the fleet in bondage. "I hope," he added anxiously, "that it won't be like that."
He pointed to the turbulent tidal current. "We'll be miles outside that," replied Meredith. "I expect to sight her fifteen or twenty miles east of Duncansbay Head—off the Pentland Skerries, to be exact. Hullo! Wakefield's moving."
With much spluttering of exhausts, No. 1499 swung out, gathered way, and headed for the open sea.
"Let go for'ard... let go aft!" ordered Meredith.
He invariably took the helm himself when leaving or approaching the harbour. A true son of the sea, he delighted in feeling the kick of the helm and the lift of the little craft to the curling waves. Yet, sadly, he realised that the time was drawing near when no more would he sail under the White Ensign and have the responsibility of command. For the future he would either relegate to an amateur yachtsman or go as a passenger on a pleasure steamer when he went afloat. Vaguely he wondered whether it would be anything like holding command. He thought not.
He had had a letter from Pyecroft that morning. Pyecroft was literally eating his heart out in Bournemouth, already utterly fed up with civilian life.
"I went up yesterday," he wrote. "They're running flights at two guineas a head in a Handley-Page. Couldn't resist it; but, by Jove! it was as dull as ditch-water having to watch another bloke at the joystick. Just fancy paying two guineas, when I was paid twelve bob a day in the Service for practically the same thing. And the price of everything! I never realised it when I was in the R.A.F. I tell you, it will knock the bottom out of my gratuity when I get it."
"Sufficient is the day..." thought Meredith, and as the M.L. took the first comber over her sharp bows and flung a shower of spray completely over the fluttering pennant, he threw forebodings to the winds.
"Fine little boat, eh, what?" he exclaimed, addressing Morpeth, who like an old war-dog was revelling in the sensation of being afloat once more. "Take her, if you like."
"Tough Geordie" did so with alacrity. To him it was a novel sensation. Apart from the fact that he was no longer commander of a vessel, and had perforce to spend his time superintending the embarking and landing of bluejackets and naval stores, he had been used to handling ships of large tonnage. To him No. 1497 appeared like a swift skimming-dish, and required but little helm to make her turn almost in her own length.
"Fine little craft!" he declared enthusiastically. "Takes some getting used to. I feel like a carter riding a Derby winner. Hello! Destroyer on our starboard quarter."
"Yes," said Meredith. "She stands by while we board—just a matter of precaution, you know. We can run alongside a vessel; but if she took on the boarding stunts he'd have to lower a boat."
He gave orders for the M. L. to show her distinguishing number, then, having received the acknowledgment from the destroyer, Meredith told off one of the crew to take the helm.
An hour and a half later the two M.L.'s arrived at the rendezvous. There was no sign of the Hohenhoorn—the expected relief ship.
"Another dirty trick of Fritz's to keep us barging about in a seaway," bawled Wakefield through a megaphone. "Sorry I can't have you fellows on board to lunch."
"Don't want any, thanks," replied Cumberleigh feelingly. It was a far different motion, running dead slow in an M.L., from that of the heavily-ballasted Q 171. He was beginning to feel unpleasantly warm in the region immediately below the buckle of his belt.
"Nothing like a little rifle practice to buck a fellow up," shouted Wakefield. "I'll tow a bottle astern. Bet you fifty cigarettes you don't smash it in a dozen rounds."
"Done," replied Cumberleigh; and the skipper of M.L. 1499 proceeded to carry out his share of the programme.
Even at a bare five knots the bottle was a difficult target as it bobbed and zigzagged in the wake of the M.L. At the sixth shot Cumberleigh began to lose his optimism; at the ninth he looked positively glum; at the eleventh, that ricochetted clean over the target, he turned to Meredith.
"The barrel isn't leaded, is it?" he inquired. "I had the beastly bottle dead on the sights every time."
"One more to go," observed Kenneth.
Cumberleigh raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and pressed the trigger. The bullet struck the water a couple of yards beyond the untouched target.
"You've won," shouted Cumberleigh.
"Have you a pistol on board?" inquired Morpeth, who had been a silent but interested spectator.
"Yes," replied Kenneth.
"I'll borrow it, then," continued Morpeth. "Ahoy, there! Will you take me on the same terms?"
"Right-o," replied Wakefield.
"A hundred yards," commented "Tough Geordie," thrusting the weapon under the stump of his left arm, and opening the breech to ascertain that the chambers were loaded.
Without any apparent effort, and with what appeared to be a careless movement, Morpeth raised the weapon.
"Bang! bang! bang!" it barked in quick succession.
"A hit!" exclaimed Cumberleigh enthusiastically, as the bottle leapt almost clear of the swirling wake.
"No," replied Morpeth. "I've only cut the towline."
Thrice more the heavy pistol barked. At the sixth shot the bottle, smashed to fragments, disappeared from view.
"Not bad," commented Morpeth modestly. "Considering the lively platform, it wasn't a bad shot."
"A capital shot, by Jove!" declared Kenneth.
"S'pose I'm a bit out of practice," exclaimed the R.N.R. officer. "It used to be a favourite pastime in the old Foul Anchor Line. You see, if a Dago thought of using a knife, he'd consider twice when he knew a fellow could shoot straight. For my own part, I'd as lief use my fist in a close scrap, but you can't hit a periscope at two hundred yards with your fist. One of our skippers shattered one at two hundred—that was early in '15, when Fritz wasn't so careful as he was later—and it wasn't all luck either. He was a good shot, and no mistake."
By this time Cumberleigh's threatened indisposition had passed away, and when a little later the Hohenhoorn was sighted he had completely regained his sea-legs.
In answer to an International Code signal the German vessel slowed down, and finally lost way within a couple of cables' lengths of Meredith's command.
"Coming aboard?" inquired Kenneth, as No. 1497 ran alongside the towering hull of the Hun ship.
Cumberleigh mentally measured the length of the wire rope ladder that had been let down from the vessel's bulwarks. Many a time he had clambered out of the fuselage of a blimp at anything up to five thousand feet, but the swinging monkey ladder as it flogged the side of the rolling ship was quite another proposition.
He was on the point of declining the invitation when, looking up, he caught sight of a German officer regarding him with a supercilious smile.
"Yes, I'm coming," he replied. "But one minute."
Meredith paused in the act of making a cat-like spring, and stepped back a couple of paces.
"What is it?" he asked.
"See that fellow? He's an old acquaintance—von Preussen, to be exact."
"Never," declared Meredith incredulously. "He wouldn't dare risk it."
"He has, at any rate," said Cumberleigh. "More, he knows we can't touch him. Logically he's on German soil, and in a German vessel that's been given safe conduct."
"I suppose you're right," admitted Kenneth regretfully. "All I can do is to report to the S.N.O."
"That may stop his little game—for he's up to some mischief, I'll be bound," said Cumberleigh. "Right-o, I'll follow you!"
The boarding-party, consisting of Meredith, Cumberleigh, a petty officer and two bluejackets, negotiated the ladder with no casualty beyond a few barked knuckles. Meredith, receiving and returning the German captain's salute, asked for the ship's papers.
"And what is Herr von Preussen doing on board?" he demanded abruptly.
"It vos mein order," replied the skipper of the Hohenhoorn. "Dis Zherman scheep."
"Quite," agreed Meredith. "At the same time I warn you that von Preussen's presence will be reported, and it would be well if he refrained from any activities that will certainly lead to trouble. Now, I'll look under hatches."
A systematic search of the holds revealed nothing in the nature of the cargo beyond what was stated in the official documents. Everything, apparently, was in order.
"Now I'll see what's aft," declared the boarding officer.
Again there was nothing to elicit suspicion, but as Kenneth passed along the main deck he saw something covered by a tarpaulin. Lifting one comer, there was what appeared to be a huge pile of evergreens.
"What's that for?" he inquired. "It's rather too early for Christmas."
"Ja, Herr Kapitan," agreed the German. "Dese are for—how you call it?—Ach, I haf it: wreaths. It is a Zherman officer that vos died, an' dese are tribute from der Vaderland."
"Then he must be deeply lamented," thought Kenneth, as he moved on. Then, filled with well-grounded suspicion, he stopped abruptly.
"Just shift those things," he ordered, addressing the two members of the M.L.'s crew. "It would be well to see if anything's underneath, although Fritz would, I take it, choose a craftier hiding-place."
The men obeyed, the German officer making no protest. They were genuine evergreens, and on plucking a leaf Kenneth found that the sap was still fresh.
"All right. Put them back and carry on," he ordered.
Meanwhile, Karl von Preussen—spy, ex-officer of the Prussian Guards, and now wearing a naval uniform—was holding Cumberleigh in conversation.
"Ah, good morning, Cumberleigh," he exclaimed with all the assurance possible, and extended his right hand. "Delighted to see you again."
"For what reason?" asked the R.A.F. captain, ignoring the Hun's hand.
"It is good to meet old acquaintances," continued the unabashed German. "Now the war is over we must be friends, and get back to our old footing. I, for example, am looking forward to visiting London again, but in a different capacity than on the last occasion."
"Might I remind you that the war is not yet over," said Cumberleigh coldly.
"Practically so," protested von Preussen. "So let bygones be bygones. I myself bear you no animosity for knocking me down on Wick pier. It was an unfortunate mistake for me to have been there. I ought to have known better. But on the other hand I thank you for your excellent entertainment at the mess at Auldhaig. The lunch was splendid, but I am afraid I cannot say the same for your entertainment of me on the fishing expedition. It caused me a considerable amount of inconvenience."
"And more to me," added Cumberleigh. "By the by, what are you doing on board?"
"I am following a temporary post as assistant secretary to Admiral von Reuter," explained von Preussen without hesitation. "It is mainly on account of my knowledge of England and the English. I am sorry you are so stand-offish, Captain Cumberleigh. It is hardly the way to treat a man who has worn the same uniform as yourself. Remember me to Jefferson, Pyecroft and Blenkinson, also other old acquaintances at Auldhaig, if you should come across them. There is some one else I should like to send a message to—a Mr. Entwistle. I believe you have met him. Well, I see your friend has completed his examination of the Hohenhoorn, so we must part. Until our next meeting!"
"What has that poisonous blighter to say?" inquired Meredith, as the boarding-party returned to the M.L.
"A lot," replied Cumberleigh. "He's no fool, and in spite of his assurances I firmly believe he's something up his sleeve. I'd like to have him in irons as a matter of precaution."
"Same here," rejoined Meredith. "But it can't be did, you know. He's pinning his faith on the old saying, 'An Englishman's word is his bond'; and there you are."
"Precisely," admitted Cumberleigh.